Echo of a Dream
by Angels-Protegee
Summary: Before he ever set foot in Persia, Erik was a traveling magician who couldn't go home. Before Christine was ever born, Ange Renard was running from the only home she'd ever known. Together, they may find the shelter they long for...or still more sorrow.
1. L'ange et le Serpent

**This was inspired by a friend of mine, who wanted a story about an abused cellist. It seemed like a challenge to follow up "Broken Pieces" with something like this, as it could turn too similar very easily, but I couldn't pass it up. I also couldn't resist the opportunity to take some...artistic liberties with Erik (a decision that's already given me plenty of anxiety). Please let me know what you think!**

She hated him. By all the saints and angels, she hated him.

She sat across from him at the table, watching him eat his breakfast yet not touching a thing herself. His hands worked knife and fork, and their mundane motions were disgusting to her, recalling how just last night they had curled into fists and struck her senseless before groping and violating, taking from her what he considered his right. He was her husband, and she hated him.

He looked up and cast her an irritated glance. "For God's sake, Evangéline, eat something."

"I'm not hungry," she replied. He always called her by her proper name…not that she ever wanted him to use the pet name her mother had given her. She'd always been simple "Ange" to her, an angel, now ensnared by this devil. Séraphin Renard, a serpent wearing the guise of a respectable gentleman…

"You're not going to starve yourself," he told her. "Eat something. Now."

She held back a deep sigh and picked up her fork, toying with the food on her plate. When had her life taken this turn? When had she become this…thing? It wasn't so long ago she'd been so blissfully happy, so carefree, so innocent. Now she was just a trophy, a china doll that had been battered and knocked about until she could scarcely believe she hadn't shattered completely. But no, he hadn't gone that far, not yet. She wasn't allowed the freedom of death, and she wasn't allowed to call her life her own. She belonged to him.

A servant appeared to refill her barely-touched orange juice. She hated orange juice, but under Séraphin's watchful eye, she didn't dare protest. He observed her for a few minutes more then, satisfied when she began to eat, picked up the morning paper and began to read. She stared for a long time at the front page, not concerned so much with the news story as she was with his face hidden behind it. That face was still as handsome as the day she first saw it, though her perception of it had changed drastically during four years of marriage. He'd been charming, pleasant, and nearly angelic during their courtship and engagement, a façade he still maintained for the rest of the world. She was given the honor of seeing the devil that hid beneath.

Ange had lived her whole life with her mother, a woman as close to being a saint as anyone is permitted to be. Her father had died while she was still young, but he'd been a successful tradesman and Lisette, her mother, had come from old money, so they had always been well off. Séraphin was Lisette's solicitor, and though Ange had known him nearly her entire life, she'd never really had that much to do with him. He was fourteen years older than her and didn't take any notice of her until about her sixteenth birthday.

It was a very important occasion, as a provision in her father's will made her mistress of her inheritance at this time, thus enabling her to marry well. The fortune Lisette would leave her wasn't quite so accessible, as it wouldn't fall to her until Lisette's demise, but it made little difference. Ange instantly became one of the most sought-after young heiresses in Paris. Every gentleman bachelor in their acquaintance began to call on her, expressing their admiration and devotion, but none of them managed to catch her eye the way M. Renard did. It was doubtful Lisette knew anything about his sudden interest, or she would have put an end to it, unsuitable as it was. Yet as it happened, her health had begun to fail her at this time, and not eighteen months after the courtship began, Lisette died.

For the first time in her life, Ange was alone, without friend and protector. Séraphin had been there for her, as a trusted advisor, a confidant, and before too long, as a suitor. How could a girl hardly more than a child be held responsible in such a circumstance? How was she supposed to guard against a threat she didn't recognize? Séraphin Renard had seemed a savior to her, and now—

"Stop staring like an empty-headed idiot," he ordered. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

"I'm sorry, Séraphin," she apologized. "I didn't realize—"

"Well, start," he snapped. "I won't have anyone pitying me that I married some simple twit without an ounce of common sense. I already have to put up with their sympathies on having a barren wife."

He meant to hurt her as well as vent his own frustration. What Séraphin coveted most, the one thing he desired over all others, was a son. And it seemed that a son was the one thing Ange couldn't give him. For her part, it was a wondrous relief that she hadn't yet conceived, for with a father like Séraphin, what kind of life could any child have?

"Do you know what it's like for a man in my position," he demanded, "to have to smile politely and listen to their condolences when they hear that my wife has failed these past four years to conceive a child? Do you?"

Ange didn't reply.

Séraphin set his newspaper aside with a gesture of contempt. "No, I don't suppose you do," he sneered.

"I can't control whether or not I conceive," she told him, adding silently, _and how could I possibly when you beat me to within an inch of my life?_

"Be quiet," he ordered. "I don't want to hear any of your excuses."

"Excuses?" she asked. "You know how hard I've tried to give you a son, to make you happy—"

The slap came unexpected, and she nearly fell sideways out of her chair with the force of it. She threw out her arm, landing hard with her elbow on the table and upsetting the orange juice. The bright stain stood out garishly against the white linen of the tablecloth, and the discarded newspaper was drenched. She straightened up, prepared for another blow, but all he said was, "Now see what you've done, you worthless slut? I will not tolerate your disrespect. I am the master of this house, and you will obey and honor me. Is that clear, Evangéline?"

"Yes, Séraphin," she replied softly.

"Speak up!"

She tried to keep her voice from trembling as she looked up into those pitiless eyes. "Yes, Séraphin."

He gave a slight smile of triumph and waved dismissively. "Now get out of my sight."

Ange's legs shook and her cheek burned where he'd hit her as she hurried to obey. She fled the room as fast as she could without running, struggling to hold back the tears she could feel coming until she was out of sight. The fashionable house was large and the staff was already at work; everyone could see her as she ran away, and it only made her more ashamed of herself. Lisette had taught her to carry herself like a lady at all times. What would she say if she could see her daughter now?

She reached the safety of her dressing room, locking the door behind her and dropping onto the bench in front of the vanity. She finally allowed the tears to fall, streaming freely down her face as she raised her eyes to her reflection in the mirror before her.

The image was still the same in its physicality. Still the same wavy brown hair, coiled up neatly atop her head, the same brown eyes that held such sweet expression, the same complexion that was flawless except for that one beauty mark on her right cheek. Nose, lips, brow, and bone structure…all were still as they'd always been. What had changed to make a stranger of the face in the glass lay in its essence. Once upon a time, there had been light and warmth in those eyes. A pleased and contented smile had graced that mouth. The very air surrounding her had seemed to glow with a captivating vivacity and gentleness. That was gone now, replaced by a terrible hopelessness and grim defeat. She was still very young, but the past four years had wrought such damage on her mind and spirit that there was a certain spectral presence about her that hung like a poisonous fog. In her appearance and manner there was something of the deathly ill, and she knew beyond doubt it was Séraphin's toxic influence at work, a disease that would sap her strength and vitality and chase her into an early grave.

She stared blandly at the bruise on her cheek where he'd slapped her. Well, she'd have to take care of that before reappearing again. It was bad enough that all the servants knew how he treated her without the proof so clear on her face. She still had at least that much pride left. Opening one of the vanity drawers, she took out a jar of balm she'd sent her maid to buy for her, as Séraphin never let her out of the house except to accompany him to one of his social engagements. She twisted the lid off the jar, dipped her fingers into the black paste, and rubbed it into her cheek. Replacing first the lid then the jar, she searched through her cosmetics until she found face powder and a powder puff. She didn't use them yet; the balm had to be absorbed into her skin before she could cover it with makeup.

She glanced at the clock next to the wardrobe. It was nearly time for Séraphin to leave for the day. He had a brief drive to the law firm halfway across the city, and he didn't often return until after six in the evening, leaving her free to spend the day in relative peace. She stood and went to the window, parting the damask curtains a fraction to spy out. The carriage already sat parked on the curb waiting, so it shouldn't be too long…Within a few minutes, she heard their front door open and saw him descend the steps to the pavement. He climbed into the carriage, shut the door, and drove away.

Ange sighed. If only he would drive away and never return…

She abandoned the window and crossed the room again, going to the instrument case that stood in the corner. She took it in hand and carried it to the vanity, sitting down and opening it. Inside was a magnificent cello, the last gift from her mother. It still looked just as glorious as it had the day of her sixteenth birthday when Lisette gave it to her, the varnish shining like burnished copper and the body shaped so beautifully it looked like the beginning of a sculpture of some sylvan goddess.

Ange lifted it out of the case and set it on the floor, positioning it between her legs and holding it steady. A cello wasn't exactly a seemly instrument for a young lady to play, but the piano, flute, or harp had never appealed to her. When she began her music studies years ago, she had begged Lisette to be allowed to learn something else. She'd been drawn in by the rich, elegant tone, and after some persuasion on her part, Lisette had bought her her first cello. She had outgrown that one long ago, and while she'd loved it dearly, it was nothing to the one she now held. She would guard this one with her life for as long as she lived.

She picked up the bow and examined it. The horsehair was yellow and nearly a third of it had fallen out; she would have to send someone to get a new one soon. She couldn't play when Séraphin was at home, as he didn't like music—_Why couldn't I have known that before I married him? _she asked herself miserably—and there was little else she could do with her days, so she spent hours on end shut away in her dressing room, finding the freedom she was otherwise denied in music. Only her maid was allowed anywhere near her room during this time, and only then to bring her mistress her midday meals. Ange held these stolen hours sacred, and while her word had little weight in the running of the household, the servants left her well enough alone. And as long as she was alone, she was safe.

She drew the bow across the strings and the cello began to sigh, the body humming softly and sweetly. She could feel every note resonating in her bones, and the gentle vibrations of the instrument made her sigh along with it as her body tingled and slowly relaxed. She played Saint-Saens "La Cynge," wishing for the thousandth time that she had someone to play the accompaniment. She couldn't do justice to the piece on her own, but she would have to be content to play by herself.

She left every thought by the wayside, shutting out her husband, what her life had become, even the world itself. It didn't matter…none of it did. If she cried, it was because she was so moved by the beautiful music. If she was sad, it was the emotion of a particular piece affecting her so. If she felt any pain, it was simply fatigue from being seated for so long and from endless hours of playing. She could be herself again without fear.

Time had no meaning as the day slipped by. She paid no attention when the maid brought her lunch, and she only spared the clock the occasional glance. She would have to stop playing before Séraphin came home.

There was an abrupt knock on her door and before she could respond to it, it swung open and her maid darted inside.

Ange looked up from her cello reproachfully. "Louise," she said, "I don't want to be disturbed during the day, you know that."

"I'm sorry, Madame," she replied, "but the master has come home, and his brother has come with him."

Ange's eyes widened in alarm. Séraphin was home early, and Émile was with him.

Émile was Séraphin's younger brother, and the black sheep of the family. Séraphin had found success in the law, which was fortunate as Émile frequently found himself on the wrong side of it. Gambling, fraud, black market dealings, even a brief partnership in a counterfeiting ring; if it weren't for Séraphin's interference—and the fortune he'd gained control of in marrying Ange—Émile would never have avoided a prison sentence as many times as he had. He possessed none of his brother's suave manner, adopting an air that was at once ingratiating and condescending. He was every inch as ruthless as Séraphin; he just couldn't hide it so well. And he was absolutely devoted to his elder brother.

Any time Émile came to visit, he was usually in need of his brother's assistance, and when Émile needed assistance it put Séraphin on edge. When Séraphin was on edge, he was twice as likely to lose his temper. And when he lost his temper, Ange was the one to suffer. She hurriedly reached for the cello case and placed the bow inside, then lifted the cello itself—

Another figure appeared in the doorway and she froze in the act. She knew who it was without looking, and she was afraid to meet his eye.

"Leave us," he instructed Louise. She bowed her head and scurried past him into the hallway, and he closed the door behind her, turning the lock. The click was like a gunshot, and Ange gave a startled jump.

"Émile has come to me for still more help," Séraphin began, "begging me to clean up the mess he's gotten himself into again. I've spent another day listening to I don't know how many people begging me to untangle their personal affairs for them so they don't have to trouble themselves with them. I was accosted outside the firm today by some no-account begging me for spare change. Everyone wants something from me, Evangéline, everyone. Even you. You expect me to look after you and protect you from this harsh world. I give you everything you could possibly ask for, and do I ever demand anything in return? What would you do if I weren't here to take care of you? You would never survive without me. You've never had to fend for yourself, and you wouldn't make it on your own. You demand everything from me along with the rest of the world. What about what I want, Evangéline? What about that?"

Ange didn't know what to say. The only thing worse than Séraphin's wrath were the moments just before it was unleashed, when every choice was the wrong choice, there was no right decision, and the slightest error in speech or action could send him into a rage. She never felt as powerless as she did in those moments, not even when he was at his absolute worst. There was nothing more terrible than seeing the disaster approaching and being unable to hide from it or stop it from happening.

"No one gives a thought for what I want," he continued. "They're only interested in what they can get from me. They come to me on bended knee, begging for all I can give them, and how do they repay me? How do _you _repay me, Evangéline? What do you give me in return?"

"I've—I've tried to be a good wife to you," she replied fearfully, "but—"

"But nothing," he told her. "You _haven't _been a good wife to me. You don't oversee the household, you think only of yourself, and after all I've done for you, you still do nothing to further my happiness."

There was a menacing gleam in his eye that spelled danger, and Ange could only guess what was coming. She was afraid to move, afraid to stand still, and afraid of what would happen when the inevitable occurred. "I'm sorry, Séraphin," she said tremulously. "I don't—I don't mean to be so selfish—"

"I don't want you to apologize," he replied. "I want you to do what you do best. Beg something else of me, Evangéline. Go on, beg."

"I don't—"

He slapped her for the second time that day, nearly knocking her off the bench. Her eyes watered at the pain as she straightened up, but he hit her again and she fell to the floor. "Ask me to stop," he told her. She said nothing and he made a fist and punched her in the face. She cried out as he continued to hit her, striking her again and again around her head and stomach.

She tried to shield herself with her arms, hearing him order her, "Tell me to stop, Evangéline! Demand something else from me!" She couldn't answer through her cries of pain and he shouted, "Speak, damn you! Are you too stupid to answer me?"

"Please, Séraphin," she gasped, "please stop—"

She didn't want him to stop…Maybe this time would be _the _time, when he didn't stop and just kept beating her until she was beyond his reach at last, where he couldn't hurt her anymore…"Stop!" she screamed, adding in her mind, _just stop this forever. Put an end to it, please…_

"Make me stop!" he yelled at her. "Come on, show some backbone for once in your life! Make me stop!"

"Please," she begged. "Please!"

He moved away from her and she felt crushed beneath a landslide of bitter disappointment, then she looked up at him. He stood over the open cello case on the floor, holding the instrument in his hands.

"No!" she cried out. "Séraphin, don't!"

"God damn this thing," he cursed. "If you put half the effort into being a better mate as you did into this, I wouldn't have to be so angry with you!"

"Please don't," she pleaded. "Please put it down, please!"

He gave her one last cold look and said, "Make me stop." Then he raised it over his head and smashed it on the floor.

She let out another scream as the wood splintered into pieces and flung herself across the floor among the fragments, scrabbling to collect them as if by gathering them fast enough she could put them back together again. Séraphin dragged her to her feet as she sobbed helplessly and pushed her forward onto the vanity, standing directly behind her. He forced her legs apart, flung her skirt and petticoat up around her waist and tore off her undergarments, then she felt him thrust hard and deep.

He was rough and ungentle, moving so violently she felt as though her entire body might rip in two at any second. He kept a hand in the middle of her back, pressing her onto the table and holding her down. She gasped and struggled against the agony deep inside her, in her soul as well as in her body. She just wanted to die; she would have blessed the act as the most merciful thing he'd ever done if he would only end her misery; but still he held her trapped in a living hell with no hope of breaking free. The power was all his.

She felt the white-hot rush in her belly that meant he'd finished with her again. He stayed inside her for several minutes, during which she neither moved nor made a sound. Tears continued to pour down her face. If she looked into the mirror, she would see him, always looming behind her, always watching her; she kept her eyes fixed on the surface of the table.

Finally, he pulled away, and she heard the metallic chink of his belt buckle as he made himself presentable. "Clean yourself up," he commanded. "I'll expect you downstairs for dinner in ten minutes." He went to the door and unlocked it then, putting his hand on the knob; he turned back to her and added, "I still want a son, Evangéline. I hope for your sake you give me one this time." Then he opened the door and strode away as calmly and composedly as if nothing worth mentioning had happened.

Ange slid to her knees on the floor, crouching next to the remains of her beloved cello. Large chunks of wood intermingled with strings, tuning screws, and the long neck that hadn't been damaged. She continued to weep as she collected the pieces and put them inside the case, shutting the lid and fastening the latches. Then she gathered the case in her arms, curled up on the floor, and cried.

He always knew how to hurt her, where to apply the right pressure that would bring her to her knees like a wounded animal. But nothing he had done so far hurt as bad as this, nothing. He might as well have smashed her to pieces on the floor along with her one comfort against the black torment she faced in being shackled to him. If he was the master of the house, a king in his castle, then she was no better than a poor wretch sentenced to a lifetime in prison.

There was a gentle tap on the door and Louise entered, looking as compassionate as was proper in her place. "The master wants you downstairs, Madame," she said. "Dinner is almost served."

Ange ignored her, clutching her cello even tighter.

Louise knelt beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Please, Madame," she murmured softly, "please don't just lie here. He wins if you give up."

It wasn't the gentle words that roused her; it was the soft touch on her shoulder. She had given up hope long ago, but it had been so long since she'd known a kind touch that it couldn't fail to stir something in her now. She lifted her head and looked Louise in the eye. She wasn't much older than Ange herself, after all, but she looked much younger. There was no lingering sorrow in those eyes to age them so many years.

Louise helped her stand again and rearranged her untidy hair for her. Then she powdered her face and dabbed a bit of rouge on her cheeks, covering the worst of the bruises. She didn't offer any more words of comfort, for which Ange was grateful. There was nothing she could say that would make her feel any less wretched.

After a few more minutes' work, Ange was ready to face the rest of the house again. She knew it was unwise to test Séraphin's patience any longer, but…She laid her hand on the cello case, unwilling to leave it.

"Don't worry, Madame," Louise told her. "I'll see that it's safe."

Ange nodded silently, biting back the reply on the tip of her tongue. It didn't matter how safe Louise kept it, her cello was lost beyond repair. It was like losing her closest friend. She gave a quiet sigh, wiped away the last of her tears, and went downstairs.

Séraphin glanced at her as she entered the parlor, then turned back to his brother. "I can't pay off any more of your debts, Émile," he said. "You're damn lucky I'm your brother and not another degenerate you owe, or you'd end up in the Seine after failing to reimburse me for all the money I've loaned you."

"I'll be able to pay you back in two weeks," Émile insisted. "If I don't come up with the money, I'll end up in the Seine anyway. You don't want to see your brother come to disaster, do you?"

"It would save me a great deal of trouble," Séraphin replied. He huffed in annoyance and said, "I'll get you the money after dinner, but this has to be the last time."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Émile assured him. "You're helping your old brother make a new start."

"Where have I heard that before?" Séraphin sighed. "I need a new clerk at my office. You can have the position, provided you come in and actually do the job. You'll stay out of trouble there."

"Ah, you're too good to me," Émile replied. "Consider it a deal." He looked up and spotted Ange standing in the doorway and gave her an oily smile. "It's always a pleasure to see you, Evangéline," he said. "You're looking lovelier than ever, I must say."

He had to be mocking her. Even through the layer of makeup, the marks Séraphin had just given her were visible.

"You're lucky to have a man like my brother for your husband," he went on. "I hope you're a good wife to him in return."

Now she knew he was mocking her. He had to have heard the things Séraphin had been shouting at her; the whole house must have. Ange merely gave a bland, weak smile and replied, "Of course, Émile."

"Well, I think we've waited quite long enough for dinner," Séraphin cut in. "Shall we go now?"

"May I do the honors of escorting my sister?" Émile asked.

"Fine, whatever you want," his brother said dismissively.

Ange had no choice but to take the arm Émile offered and let him lead her to the dining room. He had never behaved improperly to her; he loved his brother too much to make any advances toward his wife. But still, she didn't trust him; he frightened her nearly as much as his brother did, in his own way. They went to the table and the servants brought the meal in. Séraphin sat at his customary place at the head of the table, Émile sat next to him, and Ange sat at the far end of the formal settings where she was out of the way but still in plain sight, where Séraphin could always have an eye on her. She looked up across the table at the two of them, already in conversation.

She hated them both.

* * *

Several weeks later, Ange sat alone in her dressing room, listening as Séraphin left the house for the day. She'd been miserable since he destroyed her cello, and now there was another worry on her mind.

He hadn't laid a hand on her since that day, not to strike her or to have his way with her. She would normally feel some sense of relief to be granted such a reprieve, but her monthly cycle should have come by now. She'd been late before, but never this long…

It looked like Séraphin would finally get what he wanted—a child.

The thought filled her with fear. Would she even be able to carry a child to term, with the way he treated her? And under his parenting, how would a child grow up? Violent and demanding like him, or frightened and cowed like her? She didn't know which would be worse. She couldn't let it happen. She had to do something!

But what? She could never bring herself to kill the baby she carried, regardless of who its father was or how it had been conceived, not even to save it from him. She could run, but he would be sure to follow her, and she couldn't hide from him forever. There was no one she could turn to, not since Lisette had died. There had to be something, there had to be!

She sighed and sat down at her vanity, staring at the lamp Louise had lit for her in the morning. She didn't need the light anymore, but she hadn't extinguished it yet. The wick burned steadily, flickering slightly as the slightest movement in the air disturbed it. She watched it without really seeing it for several long minutes. She'd been without hope for four years, but she had to escape now. She felt she would willingly walk through the fires of Hell if she could just get away from this life. She would gladly let it die…it was already dead anyway…

Her eyes widened as the force of the thought struck her. No, she couldn't do something like that…but she had no other choice…it was a terrible thing she was considering…but there was no other way.

She was going to kill Séraphin.

**Off to a good start?**


	2. Le Vagabond

**So far I have no idea how I'm doing with this...anyone with me here? Missing a certain someone? Don't worry, he's here right now! I think I'm taking more of a Kay approach with him this time around, along with a little of my own imagination. Hope it works! *crosses fingers***

The morning was cool, the sky was overcast, and the wind blew in great gusts that made the canvas tents flap and rustle. There was a smell of rain in the air, mingling with cooking fires and horses. Most of the camp was already up and about preparing for the fair's opening on the morrow, but there was one among them who'd been awake for hours and had yet to make his appearance.

This isn't to say that Erik hadn't been active. He had spent several hours before dawn walking the countryside around the camp, preferring the world when there were fewer people around to stare and gawk at the strange masked man. When the first of his traveling companions had begun to stir, he'd retreated back into solitude. He'd been with this fair for many months now, but he was still as unused to them as they were to him, and he would rather have as little to do with them as possible.

He sat alone in his own tent, listening to the bustle outside and paying no mind to it. The shaft of sunlight that stabbed inside from beyond the flap that served as the door was glaringly harsh, making the darkness in the rest of the tent seem that much deeper. He sat in the far corner, as far from the door and the light as he could get. Its intrusion was a nuisance and its presence unnecessary; he'd always been able to see in the dark, and to be honest the sunlight hurt his eyes.

The clamor outside grew louder, shouts, laughter, and the noises of the animals rising and echoing back to him. It masked the sound of approaching footsteps, and until a shadow passed in front of the door, he was unaware he had a visitor. A light, slightly raspy voice called, "Erik? Are you there?"

"Yes, Genevieve," he replied.

Without waiting for further invitation, an old woman entered the tent. She had long silver hair that she wore in a braid over her shoulder and the burgundy yarn of the shawl she'd wrapped around herself was faded. Her dress was patched and her feet were bare, and she carried a long thin cane that she continually passed back and forth across the ground as she walked. Her eyes were the same cool gray as the sky outside, and it seemed their pale color had bled from the irises into the pupils. _Of course it would work out that way, _he thought humorlessly. _The only person in this circus who could tolerate my company would be a half-senile blind woman._

Genevieve had been the fortuneteller in the fair for many years before Erik had joined, and even though her mind wandered more than ever nowadays, she was still good if unusual company. She was alternately direct and cryptic, she never told a story the same way twice, and she had a knack for turning up precisely when Erik would rather be alone.

"I'm not waking you, am I?" she asked.

"Not at all," he replied. "How are you this morning?"

"As well as any cat-fed bird," she answered.

This was exactly why Genevieve was at once an entertaining and infuriating conversationalist. Erik would have assumed this was meant to be a bad thing in any rational person, but with Genevieve he never could tell. Perhaps she wasn't well at all, perhaps she'd just confused her words, or perhaps she'd put something exotic in her morning pipe again. Who could be sure?

She made her way through the tent and sat down without waiting to be asked. "How are you this morning?"

"Alive," he replied.

"It beats being dead," she told him, "though when you're as old as I am, it doesn't make a difference either way. How are the new illusions coming along?"

The irony of it had always struck him: Not only was the half-senile blind woman the only one to seek out his company, she was also forever interested in his conjuring. She'd spent too many years duping people into believing she could read into the future not to appreciate Erik's skills as a magician. She often told him that she trusted him over most others in the fair because she already knew he was a liar and a cheat just like her. And while she couldn't see a single one of his tricks, she took great pleasure in telling him how he could make each one better and applauding him every time he perfected one without taking her advice.

"I've nearly worked out the Chinese box," he told her. "A few more days of fine-tuning should do it."

"Do you think it will be ready for the opening tomorrow?" she inquired.

He glanced at the door distastefully. "Another town, another opening, what does it matter?" he asked. "I might not even do any shows while we're here."

A frown creased Genevieve's already wrinkled face. "Why so sour, young man? Why this bitterness?"

"You might well ask," he replied, then went taciturn.

Genevieve brushed it off and sighed. "Rouen…I was raised on the coast, but my favorite cousins lived here. They're all in the ground now, of course, but it's still good to be back."

He didn't answer her. He wasn't at all happy to be back in Rouen.

Genevieve continued to talk, mostly to herself, so his disengaged mind was free to wander. How long had it been now? Eleven, maybe twelve years? Were they still here? Were they even still alive? He glanced at the door again as if seeing beyond it to the city in the distance. Not too far from here, he'd been born, and it had been many years since he'd left.

_His memory drifted back to that night as he lay awake in his bedroom, listening to his parents' raised voices in the parlor. He'd been sent to bed without any supper again for daring to try to embrace his mother. He'd long given up hope of ever exchanging the affectionate kisses he'd seen other children give their mothers as he watched them down in the street through an upstairs window, but maybe she wouldn't mind if, just this once, he wrapped his thin arms around her waist and held onto her the way other children were allowed to hold onto their mothers…_

_She let out a shriek and pushed him away from her, knocking him to the floor. "What do you think you're doing?" she screamed at him._

_"Please, Maman," he said, "I just—"_

_"Don't touch me! Don't you ever touch me!"_

_"I'm sorry, but I thought—" He scrambled to his feet again and ran from the kitchen as she threw things at him, dishes stacked nearby, the vegetables she'd been chopping, even the cast iron skillet that had been sitting on the stove. "Get away from me, you little beast!" she raged. "Get out of my sight! Don't let me see you again!"_

_Why did she hate him so much? What had he done wrong to make her scream and throw things at him and call him a beast? He knew what beasts were; they were animals like dogs and cats and other things. But he wasn't an animal; he was a little boy who'd just tried to give his mother a hug…was that a bad thing?_

_He listened at the bedroom door as his father came home for the day, his footsteps sounding in the kitchen as he asked, "Where's Erik?"_

_"Don't talk to me about that monster!" she said. "I sent him away from me, and I only wish I never had to set eyes on him again!"_

_His father sighed. "What has he done now?"_

_"He ran in here and actually tried to put his arms around me! That freak of nature tried to tou—"_

_"That freak of nature happens to be our son."_

_"I have no son! Whatever it was that came from my womb is not my son! It's not even a child!"_

_"Of course he's a child, woman! What are you on about?"_

_Erik pressed his ear to the door, trying to catch every word. Maybe he was about to learn at last why she had never loved him…_

_"You have no idea," she said. "In all these years, you've never once seen his face."_

_"What's wrong with his face?" his father asked._

_Indeed, what was wrong with his face? Erik touched the mask he'd always been made to wear. He'd worn it ever since he could remember because she told him to and she never said why, though he must have asked her at least a thousand times. What could possibly be wrong with him that she would make him stay covered every hour of the day and even forbid him from going outside?_

_He turned away from the door and looked around the room in search of something he could see a reflection in. In just the right kind of surface, he should be able to see himself; he'd seen images of the surroundings in things like the backs of spoons, pails of water, and darkened windows—_

_He scurried across the room to the window. The sun had gone down and the sky was black; if he lit a candle he could see in the window without seeing through it._

_He took the candle from his bedside table and got the matches from where he'd hidden them under his mattress. He took one from the box and struck it, then held it to the wick. There was a little crackle as it caught the flame and he blew the match out before carrying the candle to the window. He placed it in the sill and watched the flame flicker and gutter in the draft edging in through a crack in the seam before turning his eyes to his reflection. The mask was there, as always, a crudely made barrier designed to hide from sight what his mother didn't want anyone to see…_

_Erik took a deep breath, then removed the mask._

_A gasp tore from him and he nearly screamed aloud. This was why she forced him to hide his face, why she had never loved him, why she called him beast and monster. There _was_ a monster right there in the glass, standing exactly where he was standing and wearing his clothes and looking at him with such utter horror in its eyes. He'd never seen anyone with eyes like those, a fierce burning yellow that actually glowed. No one else had skin that strange, awful shade that stretched so tightly across the bones it looked as though it might tear any second. Who in the entire world had wide dark holes where a nose should be and two shriveled bits of flesh where everyone else had lips? And to add insult to injury, the horrible monster was only half there. The other side of his face looked just like any other boy, a cruel hint at what he might have looked like…had he not been born a freak._

_But no, that couldn't be him in the window! That was a monster, and he wasn't a monster! He raised his hand and touched his nose—and felt an empty hole. And the monster in the window raised its hand and touched the hole of its nose as well. Erik touched his eye, and the monster touched its deep-set socket. He ran his hand over his scalp next, feeling little wisps of hair and bald patches; so did the monster._

_It was too much for a little boy to take in at all, let alone all at once. He knocked the candle out of the window and sent it rolling across the floor. He ran into the corner of the room out of sight of himself and hid his face in his hands. The skin beneath his fingers was waxy and cold and he let out a startled cry, crawling across the floor to retrieve his mask from under the window. He replaced it over those terrible features and tentatively looked in the window again. The monster was gone, but it lay just below the surface and he could never take back the sight. He turned away again and heard his parents' voices downstairs, growing louder and louder._

_"Go look at him!" his mother shrieked. "Go look at that face and say again that that's my child!"_

_The first horror of Erik's seeing himself was replaced by the horror of his father's seeing him, of _anyone_ seeing him. He couldn't let it happen, he couldn't! What would he do if someone saw the creature he was? What would they do to him?_

_He wasn't about to find out. He got to his feet and listened carefully for footsteps up the stairs, but there weren't any yet. There was still time to get away. He took the sheet from his bed and gathered supplies, anything he might need. He couldn't sneak down to the kitchen, or he'd steal some food before he left. No matter. He'd find some later. He tied the sheet up and returned to the window, unlatching it and raising it. Down in the parlor, his mother and father were still arguing, but they could come in at any second. He had to hurry._

_He dropped his bundle out the window and swung a leg over the sill. He pulled his body through and then his other leg, then looked down. It was a long way to the ground, so he couldn't just jump…he'd have to climb somehow…He cast his eyes left and right looking for a way down and spied the ivy-covered trellis at the far end of the roof. Walking as lightly as he could and stepping carefully to keep from slipping, he moved across the shingles and stepped onto the trellis. One foot after the other, he made his way down to the ground. His foot slipped and he fell the last few feet, landing hard but otherwise unhurt. He stood again and found his bundle, and throwing it over his shoulder, he set off into the night._

"Erik? Are you listening to me?"

He returned to the present with a snap at Genevieve's voice. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking you what you intend to do if you really don't plan on performing the entire time we're here."

"Oh, well…how long will we be here?"

"About a month, last I heard."

Erik sighed heavily. An entire month in the very place he'd hoped to never see again…

"Why so quiet?" Genevieve asked.

"No reason," he replied, adding mutely, _You really can't go home, that's all._

* * *

It was nearly sunset when Erik emerged from his hideaway again. The people who were still about after dark usually left him alone and it seemed his ominous presence was a little less intolerable when the moon had risen. He wandered the fringes of the camp, avoiding everyone that crossed his path. He stayed out of their way, and they stayed out of his.

For the most part, that is. There was a rustle up ahead and a young woman slipped out of the nearest tent. Like Genevieve, she was barefoot, and her long dark hair rippled down her back in a mass of glossy waves. She was rather scantily dressed, with her loose blouse revealing the tanned flesh of her neck and shoulder and a split in the side of her skirt halfway up her leg, letting the lace ruffles on her petticoat peek out. Most of the women in the fair wore shawls around their shoulders; this one wore a gauzy scarf tied around her hips. She also wore a saucy and, in Erik's mind, mystifying smile. "Hello, magic man," she said.

He narrowed his eyes and replied, "Hello, Adrienne."

She swaggered over to him, still with that smile on her lips. She was part of the fair's tumbling act, and she was the only one apart from Genevieve who ever sought him out. He could never tell exactly what she was after, but her behavior was always strange enough to convince him that, like Genevieve, she wasn't quite right in the head.

"Planning something special for the opening tomorrow?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "I'm not doing anything for the opening."

"Well, what about after?"

"I'm not performing while we're here."

Her smile dipped a bit as she asked, "Why not?"

"I don't feel like it," he told her. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"But what are you going to do instead?"

He shrugged. "I'll probably design some new tricks."

"Need an assistant?" There was that smile again.

"No. I work best alone."

"Come on, now, you can't do all of that by yourself."

What was it with this woman? Why was she always after him like this? She'd approached him before about helping him make magic, but she never grasped that he preferred solitude when absorbed in his legerdemain.

She shook her head. "You're too shy, Erik," she said.

Didn't he have reason to be? Every time he mixed with the world, bad things happened. Even when he did his level best to avoid the world, it just wouldn't leave him alone.

_He spent the first few days after running away from his parents traveling by night and sheltering during the day, feeling as though some horrible curse had been placed upon him. He couldn't rid himself of the sight of that face in the window—his face. It haunted his thoughts and soured his dreams into nightmares. He traveled as fast and as far as a young boy alone is capable of, but he couldn't leave behind the thing he wanted most to escape. He was a monster, like his mother had always said, and if his own mother had hated and rejected him, where else in the world could he go?_

_He hadn't been on his own for longer than a fortnight, however, when the next blow fell. He hadn't eaten in two days, and the smell of a nearby cookfire was too tempting to resist. He edged closer and closer to the camp and saw them…gypsies. Not just nomads like the fair he traveled with now, of mixed blood and heritage, but true Romany. They had several rabbits roasting over a spit, and these initially caught Erik's eye, but as he came still nearer, he heard music. This wasn't like any music he had ever heard before; no, this was strange and different. It was like some sort of fey spell, the way it pulled him in and whispered in his ear, commanding him to come even closer—_

_They found him. They became aware of his presence and a group of the men surrounded him and brought him forward. At first, they didn't seem to mean him any harm; they were merely suspicious of him sneaking up on their camp in the dark. When they saw the mask, it incited their curiosity, and it immediately provoked his alarm. He fought and pleaded with them not to touch his mask, but his desperation only trebled their interest, and they took it from him._

_Their cries of shock still echoed in his mind. The Devil himself was surely among them. Some of them were ready to kill him then and there and rid themselves of this evil thing. Others had different ideas. How much would the public pay to see this abomination, this living, breathing, walking corpse? They would draw in vast crowds and abundant coin if they kept him alive and put him in their shows._

_And so his captivity began. They made him walk among the throng wearing not his own mask, but a ridiculous, flashy costume of a skeleton. He would move through the fair, gathering their interest and leading them to a tent in the center of the camp. Once there, and once they had paid their entrance, he would be locked inside a cage to keep him out of reach of the crowd, and he would take off his mask. The men would jeer, the women would scream, and the children would run away at first sight of him. After they had their fill of staring at him and tormenting him through the iron bars, they would leave and make room for the next round of paying customers._

Erik shook his head to clear it and looked back at Adrienne. "If that's all," he said, "I need to be going."

She sighed and said, "If you insist. If you change your mind, you know where to find me." She made as though to walk away, then turned and added, "And Erik, if you're just going to wander aimlessly while we're here, you might decide not to do so after dark. It rather frightens people when those eyes of yours come looming out of nothing."

They were frightened of his eyes? He could show them so much worse.

He continued his stroll until he came to the edge of the camp and stood staring at Rouen in the distance. He'd left it and vowed never to set foot there again, and he would hold to his vow. He was unwanted and unwelcome there. And he wouldn't perform his magic for the fair so long as they remained. Who knew? Maybe his mother and father were still alive. Maybe they would come to the fair along with the other takers. He didn't want to see them, and he didn't want them to see him. Apart from lingering bitterness in being driven from them by her hatred, he didn't want to give his mother yet another reason to curse his existence by seeing the beast she'd given birth to performing in a carnival.

Yet he wondered how their lives had continued without him. Were they happier after he left? Did they perhaps have more children, perfectly ordinary children that didn't resemble demons? Did they love them as they had never loved him? His heart burned with envy of those siblings he couldn't even be sure existed and the love that might have been shown to them, but not him. He felt he'd rather not know either way—why add to his pain? Why wonder if he had a family? He ought to know better by now. There was no one on earth who cared about him. He was just a circus animal for the world to stare at. He had no family. There was no point in wondering…

So why couldn't he stop?

**Big things coming, but...how am I doing so far? Good? Bad? Ugly? Lemme know either way, would you? :)**


	3. La Marche Par le Feu

**As it turns out, I have no patience whatsoever. I'd planned on stockpiling a few chapters, but this one's the last of my stockpiled material...curses! Foiled through my own folly! Anywho, this one took next to no time to get down...hope you like it!**

Ange was terrified as she watched most of the staff leave for the night. Only a few of them lived in the servants' wing of the house; indeed, there was only room for only a few in the servants' wing. But none of them could stay tonight, not one of them. She had planned this over and over for weeks, and tonight was the night she was going to murder her husband.

It was just her, Séraphin, the kitchen maids, and Louise left in the house now. Her heart raced as she went downstairs into the scullery and came upon the two girls that worked there. They were going over a final cleaning, preparing things for breakfast the following morning. She cleared her throat nervously and they both looked up at her, surprised to see her in the kitchen.

"Victoire, Isabel," she said, "M. Renard would like you to take the night off. Here," she handed them each a twenty-franc note. "Go out tonight and enjoy yourselves."

They looked askance at her, but neither of them were about to pass up twenty francs. They accepted her bribe, bade her good night, and left the house.

All that remained apart from the deed itself was to get Louise out of the way. Ange left the kitchen and went back up through the house in search of her. She found her in her dressing room, laying out her night gown for her. Ange stood in the doorway for a moment in silent contemplation that this would be the last time they ever spoke. They weren't exactly close, but it was still a sobering thought. "Louise," she said at last, "that will be all for tonight. Thank you."

"Will you need anything else before I retire, Madame?" the maid asked.

Ange paused. Louise was of another caliber than the kitchen girls. She couldn't be expected to take some money and ask no questions, and Ange had a higher opinion of her than that. Still, an explanation wasn't an option. After a moment's thought, she told her, "Leave the house tonight, Louise. That's all I want."

Louise was puzzled. "I beg your pardon, Madame?"

"I want you to leave," Ange repeated. "In fact, I'm—I'm dismissing you. You're no longer employed here."

"But I—I don't understand," Louise stammered. "Have I displeased you?"

"Not at all," Ange told her. "I'm sorry, but—I can't let you stay here."

A light of understanding came into the maid's eyes, and she nodded slowly. "I see, Madame," she said. "Just let me collect my things, and I'll be gone shortly."

She disappeared and Ange stood at the window, staring out at the night. It was calm, clear, and peaceful, not the sort of night she would choose for this. If she had her way, it would be a storm to bring on the end of the world, with hail and lightning and rain and thunder. Rain wouldn't serve her purpose, though, and she would do what she had to no matter what the weather.

Louise returned to her several minutes later, her belongings packed and her expression sober. "Thank you, Madame," she said. "I'll be gone now."

Ange nodded. "I'll walk you out."

They left the dressing room and went to the foyer. Ange was alert for any sign of Séraphin, but he'd vanished into his study after dinner and it wasn't likely he would surface in a hurry. They halted at the front door, and Ange held out her hand. Louise shook it and said, "Goodbye, Madame."

"Goodbye, Louise." She offered her a twenty-franc note, then gave her another after consideration. "Thank you for your service."

Louise took the money and hesitated before saying, "Don't let him win, Madame. Don't give up, not now."

Ange nearly smiled. The maid thought she was going to kill herself. That was just as well; the less anyone knew of the truth, the better. She held open the door, and with a final nod, Louise set off down the steps and up the pavement, soon disappearing altogether.

Ange closed and bolted the door. This was the first time in many years she'd been alone in the house with Séraphin. There had always been a member of the household staff with them, yet there had never been a soul around to protect her from him. Oh well, it didn't matter now. Nothing in this house would matter after tonight.

She returned to her dressing room and packed a carpetbag she'd unearthed in a closet in the servants' wing. She wouldn't take much, just what was necessary. She changed out of her silk frock and put on a spare maid's uniform, throwing the finery aside. She didn't know where on earth she would go, but she didn't think about that. She had to do this, for herself and for her baby. She would die if she stayed here, and she refused to leave a child to Séraphin's cruel mercies. She had to do this.

She took up the bag and made to leave the room, then paused as her eyes fell on the cello case. Every piece was still inside, down to the last splinter. It was an unnecessary burden and there was no point in taking a broken cello along with her, but she couldn't bear to leave it behind. She waited only a second longer before she picked up the case and entered the hallway.

She left her things at the tradesman's entrance just off the kitchen and went back upstairs to wait. She hid outside Séraphin's study and listened carefully for any sound within. There was the creak of floorboards as he paced back and forth, the rustle of paper as he shuffled some documents around on his desk, then finally the clatter of crystal as he poured himself a brandy. He always took the edge off his nerves with a glass of cognac before bed…a habit Ange had taken advantage of. When he'd left for the office that morning, she'd snuck in and drugged the decanter with a sedative the maids kept in the cupboard to treat monthly cramps. She had no idea how much she should use, but half the bottle seemed enough to ensure he couldn't fight her off and gain the upper hand.

She heard the sound of liquid being poured and waited with bated breath. Her hands began to tremble, and she balled them into fists to keep them still. She hadn't expected it to be easy, but she had no idea it would be this hard. The long wait for Séraphin to emerge was only about ten minutes in reality, but it seemed like years to Ange as she crouched in the hallway. It was long enough that her fear began to take her over again, but she fought to throw off its chains. She couldn't allow herself to be afraid now. She needed to be strong, to show some backbone for once as Séraphin had told her weeks ago. This night would be the last she spent like this, tied down and imprisoned. Her life would be her own.

The study door opened and he stepped into the hallway. She watched him as he walked away, steady and sober. Had the sedative taken effect yet? It didn't look like it; she would have to wait a little longer. She followed him at a distance, taking care to avoid the squeaky floorboards as she went. She still felt anxious, but a sense of power stole over her. She felt like a wild animal on the hunt, a leopard, perhaps, or maybe a jaguar, stalking her prey in the dark while it continued on so blissfully unaware that its time was measured in mere moments. It wouldn't be long now, and she would be free of this serpent forever.

He reached the bedroom door, and did her eyes deceive her or was he beginning to stagger as he walked? He went inside and didn't even turn on a light, and she hovered outside while he undressed for the night. He hadn't even noticed she wasn't there in the bed…

She heard the blankets being drawn back and Séraphin's sigh as he got into bed and her heart skipped a beat. _Just a little longer, now…_She waited a few minutes more to be sure he'd fallen asleep, then set off down the hall to the housekeeper's supply closet. She'd already hidden her tools there: a spare length of clothesline, several bottles of kerosene, and matches. She gathered them all up and returned to the bedroom, pausing to listen for movement inside before opening the door.

The sedative had kicked in. Séraphin never snored, but he certainly was now. She crept softly to the bed with the clothesline in hand and cautiously slipped a loop around his wrist, tightening it slowly. She kept her eyes on him the whole time, half-afraid he would wake up, but he didn't stir. She tied the line securely to the bedpost and cut it with the kitchen shears she'd brought along for the purpose, then bound his other wrist before moving onto his ankles. If he did wake before she'd finished, he'd at least have a harder time getting free before she could restrain him again.

She looped the line around his last ankle, watching him closely. He looked like a sacrificial victim, spread-eagled and tied down for the slaughter…the thought made her blood run cold. What was she doing? This was premeditated murder! How could she take a life like this?

Her hands slipped and she pulled the line a little too tight. Séraphin gave a faint snort, then opened his eyes, and she halted in terror.

"What are you doing, Evangéline?" he demanded drowsily. "Why are you dressed like that?" She didn't answer, and he looked around to see her restraints. "What the hell is this? What do you think you're doing?"

She released the clothesline and took a step back. No! She had to do this! Still, her voice trembled as she replied, "I'm going to kill you, Séraphin."

The sedative had him in a stupor, and at first her words didn't sink in. He blinked stupidly and said, "What?"

"I said, I'm going to kill you."

He smiled slowly, then began to laugh. "Enough of your games, woman. Untie me, now."

She shook her head.

His eyes hardened in anger and he repeated forcefully, "Untie me, or so help me, Evangéline, you'll be lucky to see the morning!"

"But what can you possibly do to me while you're tied?" she asked softly. The rage in his eyes didn't frighten her as it used to; in fact, it didn't frighten her at all. He could do nothing against her. This was premeditated murder, and she was going to turn it into a crime of passion. "What more can you possibly do to hurt me? I've wished for death for years."

"Then I'll grant that wish for you the instant I get loose!" He struggled against her bonds, but they were too tight.

"You won't lay a hand on me again," she told him. "_Ever _again. Do you hear me, Séraphin Renard?"

"Damn it, slut, let me go this instant!"

"You're not listening, you snake! I said you won't lay a hand on me ever again!" The power within her swelled strong and she let it consume her. Finally, freedom lay just in her reach, but first she would have to walk through fire. She picked up the first bottle of kerosene and unscrewed the lid, then walked slowly around the room, pouring it over the floor, the furniture, the bed, everything.

"What are you doing, you stupid bitch?" Séraphin screamed at her. "Stop! Obey me and stop!"

She didn't bother to reply. She only snatched up the crocheted antimacassar from the arm chair by the window and forced it into his mouth, gagging him. His shouts were muffled as she opened the next bottle of kerosene and tilted it over his body, soaking the blankets and drenching him to the skin. The acrid stench of the fuel burned her nostrils, but not as badly as it would burn everything else. She exhausted her supply and took the matchbox in her hands, opening and closing it and seeing his eyes widen in terror.

"How does it feel," she asked, "to be powerless? How does it feel to see your death in another's eyes and know that nothing you can do will save you? How do you like it, Séraphin? Tell me."

Whatever he might have said only escaped her gag as distorted noise.

"Speak up!" she told him. Her blood pounded in her ears and there was an intoxicating rush in her veins. "Do you want me to stop? Answer me!"

He nodded energetically.

She leaned in closer and whispered next to his ear, "Then make me stop. Enjoy it, this feeling of helplessness, and know that I've had to bear it for four years. It'll be the last thing you ever feel—except for the pain." She drew back and took a match from the box. She struck it and heard it hiss as it ignited, staring thoughtfully at the flame before looking back at Séraphin and adding, "By the way, dear husband, you're going to be a father, just like you always wanted."

And she threw the match onto the bed.

There was a surging sound as the kerosene caught the flame and it spread, enveloping the bed and Séraphin. She stood back and watched it burn, hearing his stifled screams as the fire took him. It moved from the bed to the floor, following the trail of fuel and devouring it hungrily, along with everything else it touched.

She turned and left the room, hurrying down the hallway. It burned faster than she thought it would, chasing her as she ran as though intent upon taking her too for invoking its fury. Smoke began to fill the air, making her cough and gasp for breath. She could barely hear Séraphin in the bedroom over the roar of the inferno she'd caused. She had to get out, or it would have been for nothing.

She reached the top of the stairs, choking on the smoke filling her lungs. It was so thick around her she couldn't see…she had to escape…she set foot on the stairs and reached out for the banister, drawing back with a sharp cry. The wood was already too hot to touch. She moved faster and slipped, falling the rest of the way down and hitting her head at the bottom. She picked herself up, dazed but alert, and wiped the blood from her forehead and went to the kitchen.

Her bag and her cello were waiting for her where she'd left them. She took them and threw open the door, rushing out into the fresh air and drinking it in. It felt so cool after the fire in the house, cool and pure. She turned around and looked up. The flames had swallowed the upper floor, making the windows shatter in the heat and billows of black smoke pour out, obscuring the stars.

There were shouts on the street as people appeared, drawn like moths and calling for help. If she wanted to escape unnoticed, she would have to hurry. She held her carpetbag in one hand and her cello in the other, and ran away into the darkness.

She walked until she came to the edge of Paris, then hid in a stand of trees to rest. She set her burdens down with a sigh and leaned against the bole of a nearby poplar, thinking everything over. She was free. Séraphin was dead, and she was free. She could go wherever she liked and do whatever she pleased with no one to stop her.

But she still had to eat, and she had to think of her baby. She needed to leave Paris and find somewhere to start over. A poor girl with no husband and a child would garner no sympathy and much suspicion, but a widowed mother who'd lost everything in a fire would be pitied wherever she went. She looked down at the ring on her left hand. The diamond was as much of a trophy as she had been, but it could finally serve a purpose.

When the sun rose she went to a pawnbroker's shop with the intent of selling the useless bauble. The proprietor took one look at her, a serving girl with a diamond ring and an instrument case, and said, "I don't deal in stolen goods, mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle! How wonderful to be a mademoiselle again! "It's not stolen," she insisted. "It's my own. My husband gave it to me on our wedding day, and vowed it would remain until death parted us." A few tears might help, and it wasn't too hard to call them up. "He—he died a short while ago," _a very short while ago, _she thought, "and left me alone with our unborn baby to care for. I have nothing to my name except for this ring, and it's terrible to have to part with it, but I need the money." Great fat tears spilled from those big brown eyes and rolled in streams down her cheeks. She was a sight to stir compassion.

The pawnbroker sighed, stood silently in thought, then said, "Very well, Madame. I'll take it for…thirty-five francs."

Well, maybe not so much compassion, but it was better than nothing. It would at least get her a train ticket out of Paris. She accepted the bargain and left the ring, taking the money with her and setting off for the station.

The schedule said the next train would be leaving in an hour, bound for Rouen. She had enough and then some to buy her ticket, then had nothing to do but wait until it was time to leave. She caught sight of her reflection in a window and looked twice. There was still a smearing of blood on her head, and her hair was tangled and scorched from the fire.

She inquired from the station master where she might find a lavatory, then disappeared to make herself more presentable. She washed away the blood at the sink and examined the wound in the mirror. It wasn't deep, but it had scabbed and would likely scar. She shrugged. It was a small price to pay for her freedom, and she'd survived worse. She looked at her hair, the long wavy hair she'd brushed and plaited and coiled and pinned for so many years to please first her mother, then her husband. It would have to go. If this life was to be hers, then this was the first choice she would make as mistress of her own destiny.

She fished through the carpetbag and drew out the knife she'd taken from the kitchen. It had seemed wise to arm herself for when she was traveling alone, and look how such foresight served her now! She raised the blade, seized a handful of hair, and sawed at it until it fell away. She moved onto another handful, and another, until finally she was shorn. She looked at her reflection again. It looked so different with short, nearly boyish locks that tickled her ears and only just grazed her jaw. She examined it critically, twisting a few strands in her fingers.

She liked it. It would suit her well.

She settled on a bench on the platform and watched the sun rise in the sky. She glanced to the north where Rouen lay. She didn't know what waited for her there, but it had to be better than what she would leave behind. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It really was a beautiful day.

**Not to worry, these two are going to meet very, very soon... :) Expect it when you see it!**


	4. Une Rencontre Fortuite

**Oy vey, this one is already starting to mess with my head...and am I the only one who has no trouble picturing young Erik as an embittered hothead? Enjoy the chapter!**

Several hours after making the decision to go, Ange arrived in Rouen, stepping off the train with a little fear as she absorbed the unfamiliar surroundings. She'd never left Paris in her life; she'd never had reason to. She'd never looked after her own needs; again, she'd never had reason to. This was all brand-new to her, and it was novel and exciting and unnerving. She felt as if her life was finally beginning.

She stood on the station platform with her things and wondered what she should possibly do next. She still had money left, and she needed a place to stay. She had no experience in making funds last as long as possible, and when she'd been raised to view cost as no obstacle, she couldn't help but wonder if she was in over her head. How could she take care of herself, never mind the baby when it came?

She gave herself a little shake and steeled her nerve. She hadn't endured four years of hell and put such a mark on her soul to be discouraged this easily. She would just go to the station master and ask him for directions to an inn.

She approached a man wearing an imposing-looking uniform and asked, "Excuse me, monsieur, but where might I find a place to eat and stay the night?"

He took in her stolen uniform, her short hair, and her luggage with some curiosity and a trace of disapproval before replying, "There's an inn a few streets over from the cathedral, the Lamb and Lion. The innkeeper's name is Trudeau."

Ange nodded in acknowledgment. "Thank you very much, monsieur." She left the station and set off though the streets, in search of the cathedral. After making a few more inquiries, she arrived outside the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Rouen, with its lightning-struck spire and its muddled yet lovely architecture. She stood staring thoughtfully at the stonework, absently admiring the structure. She hadn't set foot in a church in so long...Séraphin had been indifferent to spiritual matters and had only attended Christmas and Easter mass because it was the seemly thing to do. She'd always been astounded he never burst into flames during any of the services, heathen that he was. _He's burning in Hell now, at least,_she remembered with satisfaction, then she bowed her head somberly. She shouldn't rejoice in what she'd done; no matter what kind of monster her husband had been, she had still taken his life. No reasons and no excuses made it any less of a sin.

She paused, then climbed the steps to the cathedral. She would go to the inn later. Right now, she needed to seek forgiveness.

* * *

Erik could only explain his restlessness by his displeasure at being so close to the place he'd been born, a displeasure that hadn't abated in the fair's three weeks at Rouen. On the contrary, he'd only grown more agitated with every passing day. Genevieve had kept him company, if her meandering nonsense could be considered company, but he still felt on the verge of insanity. He'd confined himself to his own tent, taking Adrienne's advice and only venturing out in the twilit hours before nightfall. Who knew? Perhaps his parents would turn up and recognize him by his glowing eyes in the dark.

_Oh, quit being stupid,_ he cursed himself. _You've never been afraid to step out your own front door; you just never could be bothered to when it didn't suit you. And why shouldn't it suit you now? For once, you can't stand being cooped up!_

He stopped, reflecting on that irony. Was he tired of being cooped up? Well, yes! He'd always resented being forced into confinement, and this self-enforced one was no better. He just might lose his mind if he didn't get out soon!

But where on God's green earth would he go, even if it was only to stretch his legs? There was still the simple problem of his...disfigurement. He wasn't about to stroll the streets without his mask, yet the mask itself attracted attention. He wanted to get out, not be hounded by curious, stupid bystanders. What kind of place existed where he wouldn't have to deal with the stares and the whispers?

A sound drifted in to meet him, a doleful, mellow chiming echoing across the countryside to whisper to him of a place he _could_go, after all...aren't churches places of shelter for those in search of it?

He rose, then strode from his tent, moving through the fair as fast as he could. His brisk pace earned him a few curious glances, but he would put those behind him soon enough. The city up ahead grew larger as he approached, and it crossed his mind that, though he might have been born there, he really didn't know that much about Rouen. He'd hardly been allowed to leave the house as a child, only ever to take in some air in the back garden away from the neighbor's prying eyes. He really _was _a stranger to this place, and wearing a mask that instantly identified him as one of the performers in the fair, he could pretend his past wasn't his past at all. What a refreshing idea...

He came to the city proper at last, looking around him at the streets he should have known all his life. The knowledge had been denied him, like so many other things; a happy childhood, a real home, and his parents' love. What if they were really alive? What if they really did have more children after him, good, normal children they could adore and be proud of? How would they feel if he just turned up out of the blue, the son they doubtlessly had done their best to forget had ever existed? Would they be shocked? Hurt? Angry?

_Well, it would serve them right_, he thought bitterly. _They should have done better, tried harder to love me, something! They'd deserve a surprise like that, for their demon reject to swoop down and throw their fairy stories into a tailspin._

He really should go see if they were still in the old house with the trellises reaching up to touch the rooftop. If they were, maybe he should knock on the door, just to see how they would take it. _Good day, monsieur and madame. Do you remember me? I'm the monster child you'd forgotten how much you hated. Care to see a magic trick?_The thought almost brought a smile to his face. It was terribly tempting...

He directed his steps to a new destination, one that was still intensely familiar to him after all these years. It was tricky to find his way in the daylight when he'd only traveled that way in the dark, but he arrived soon enough. He stood on the opposite side of the road, gazing at the house with profound dislike.

How much of it had changed? He couldn't be sure, but that fence hadn't always been there, and the shutters had been repainted; he could remember when they were dark green, not that pale yellow. The trellises, however, remained as they'd always been, apart from the thorny roses now growing up them. No more little boys would be able to climb down them in the dead of night.

Was it still their house? He felt somehow that it must be, however irrational the feeling was. Should he knock on that front door after all? Honestly, why should he in the first place? To spite them? To see how they had carried on without him?

_Well, how do you think they carried on?_ he asked himself. _They dusted themselves off and moved on quite easily, no doubt. No one ever shed any tears for you._Still, he stood staring, almost hungrily, unable to look away—

The sound of brisk footsteps down the street finally made him turn his gaze. A young woman marched up the pavement, a cloak wrapped around her shoulders and a basket nestled in the crook of her arm. He continued to watch her, following her with his eyes as she reached the gate in the fence. Without a moment's hesitation, she lifted the latch, opened the gate, strode up the lawn, and entered the house.

Erik kept his eyes on that front door, his mind still processing what he'd seen. Could that perhaps have been his sister? If so, then she looked perfectly normal, her face flawless and unblemished. They'd gotten their perfect child after all.

With a sneer, he turned his back on the house, disgusted he'd come at all. What had he expected to see? Even after he'd surmised such a thing? It was foolish and stupid to feel so...dejected. He set off back up the road, bound once more for the cathedral.

The tolling of the bells drew him onward, calling him in away from the world to a hallowed place that welcomed troubled souls such as his. He entered, the heat and the sunlight left behind him, and gazed up the nave of the church. All was still and peaceful, the silence holding the presence of God in its fingertips. The sun broke in through the windows, some shafts bursting with color as they pierced the stained glass. The pews were almost entirely empty, and the few that occupied them kept to themselves, leaving their neighbors to their prayers. Yes, this was just the place for him. He took a seat a few rows behind a young woman with curiously short hair and leaned back, closing his eyes.

"What is it you seek in the house of God, young man?"

He was called back to alertness at the soft-spoken question, opening his eyes again to see a priest standing next to his pew, the query repeated in his gentle gaze.

He was caught off guard and left stammering for a reply. "I-I seek nothing."

The priest merely smiled and told him, "Not a soul that passes through those front doors does so for no reason. Tell me, my son, what is it you seek?"

"Do you really want to know," Erik shot back distrustfully, "or are you just asking because it's your sacred duty?"

Three rows away, Ange lifted her head at the sound of that voice. The magic, the velvet music woven into every sound, struck her like thunder. She turned around to see they young man sitting there, speaking to the priest and looking as out of place as she felt. Not only was he wearing a mask that concealed much of his face, the rest of his dress was showy and eye-catching. His jacket was black, but embroidered lavishly with gold and silver thread. His waistcoat was of a brocaded scarlet, and she could see a touch of lace at his collar. The cloak on the pew beside him was lined with emerald-green silk, and the hat he'd discarded upon entering the church was adorned with a large plumed feather. She shifted in her seat to get a better view, and saw a pair of long, slender legs, like those of a runner, in close-fitting black trousers and gleaming leather boots. In most men, she would have dismissed him as an attention-seeking peacock, but there was something in his self-containment and sobriety that made him elegant.

"Of course I want to know," the priest replied softly. He'd been the one to speak to Ange upon her arrival, and while she'd kept the circumstances of Séraphin's death to herself, she had poured out the story of her abuse and her escape after finding herself a widow. She had ended by confessing how glad she was to be free of him, and how guilty she felt at being so glad. He'd offered a few words of comfort and prayed at her side for several minutes, then left her in peace again. She hoped for this stranger's sake that he would accept what solace the priest could give him.

Erik stared at the man in a long moment's silence. He hated talking to people, especially people bent on making him talk back. Maybe it was the atmosphere of the church, or his pent-up frustration at being in Rouen, or his visit to his parents' house that prompted his candor and sincerity, but he finally replied, "Shelter."

The priest nodded and said, "Then here is where you'll find it."

Erik looked back at him doubtfully, but said nothing, and the priest moved on. He leaned back in the pew again and gazed around him before closing his eyes and shutting everything out.

"Hello, monsieur."

He only just held in a growl of irritation as he looked up a second time and saw the short-haired young woman. She had moved to sit in the pew directly in front of him, and was watching him with enormous brown eyes. He glared back at her and didn't respond.

She wouldn't be discouraged, though. She leaned closer and said, "I'm Ange."

He lifted his eyebrows in indifferent acknowledgement and still refused to speak. So it was an angel that had chosen to address him?

"What's your name?"

He sighed and said, "Whatever you want it to be."

"I want it to be what it is."

What was that supposed to mean? He edged further down the pew away from her, but she followed him. She had at least stopped talking to him, but she was still staring at him. He didn't like it when people stared at him, even during his magic shows. He put up with it then because he had to; he was performing, after all; he had no such obligation now. He stood and collected his hat and cloak, nodded to Mademoiselle Angel, and left the cathedral.

Ange sat indecisively, watching him pass back down the nave of the church. It had been an impulsive act to speak to the man—one of the first impulsive acts she'd ever made—and she'd only done it because she felt so much like a stranger. Even knowing one person's name would have gone a long way to making her feel less awkward. She wasn't surprised at his aloofness, really, but she felt vaguely disappointed he'd brushed her off so quickly. Four years without a kind word from anyone...she couldn't hold back from speaking to him, not when he looked in need of kindness himself.

She gazed around the cathedral again, taking in the barren pews before turning her eyes up to the great crucifix that loomed behind the altar. The image of Christ, His arms spread wide, His sorrowful eyes lifted towards Heaven, a trickle of painted blood on His brow, held her attention for the longest time. His was the greatest sacrifice so all penitent sinners may be redeemed, but she still felt worthless as she sat there. Wasn't time supposed to heal the wounds she'd suffered? How long would she have to wait until that day came?

She sighed and crossed herself, then got to her feet. She was tired, and not just from the night's trials. It was time she went to that inn the station master had told her about.

Her carpetbag and cello case felt heavier than usual as she carried them through the doors of the cathedral into the bright sunlight. She blinked several times, waiting for her eyes to adjust again, and peered up the streets. There were people walking here and there, normal people with their own lives, too preoccupied with their own concerns to notice the strange young woman with her scandalous hair and broken instrument. Which direction was the inn? The station master had only said it was a few streets over, but where? She stood on her toes and gazed over the heads of the crowd in search of a sign. Nothing...but her attention was caught by that black hat with the feather. It was that young man in the church. _He at least seems to know where he's going_, she told herself as she watched him stride up the street, gliding effortlessly through the masses and heading for...it looked like...the edge of the city...  
In a snap decision, she readjusted her grip on her things and hurried after him.

* * *

The sun beating down on his back was uncomfortable, but not nearly as bad as being right in the middle of all those people. Had they been ogling him as he passed? They usually did; if his mask didn't draw attention, his clothes certainly did. The flashy garments weren't at all to his taste; they were far too loud and garish. They were necessary, though. They evoked interest and as a performer, he needed an audience.

_Not here, though_, he thought mutinously. _There's nothing here to interest anyone out there_. He quickened his pace.

"Please, monsieur, wait!"

A snarl of frustration burst from him. _What now?_He spun and saw that same woman from the cathedral rushing to catch up with him, struggling to hold onto a threadbare bag and a large case. For a second he had to give her credit for managing to haul it along after her in a hurry—it was nearly as big as she was. Then his original annoyance returned in full force. "What is it, mademoiselle?" he snapped. "Does it really mean that much to you to learn my name? What would you do with the knowledge anyway?"

She reached him and set the case on the ground, winded and panting for breath. "I'm sorry to disturb you," she said, "but I just—"

"What? You just what?"

She paused, looking for the right words. "It's just that I'm not from the area, and I don't know anyone. I thought maybe that you could...well, help me."

"You thought wrong," he replied flatly. He turned to go on his way again, but she grabbed his arm and held him in place. "Please, monsieur, I have nowhere and no one in the entire world."

He shook her off. "It's a harsh world, Mademoiselle Angel, and most of us are alone through it all. Sad, but true, I'm afraid."

"Can't you show any sympathy for a poor woman on her own?"

He didn't reply. Sympathy was beyond him, a foreign concept he'd never learned or witnessed. It's not that he couldn't feel it, but that he didn't know how. "I'm sorry, mademoiselle," he told her, "but there's nothing I can do for you. I'm...not from the area either." With that, he walked away and left her behind.

Ange stared at his retreating figure in disbelief. Sheltered she may have been once upon a time, but this seemed rude beyond ordinary standards, and she knew a thing or two about courtesy and decency. What made her so unapproachable? Did she perhaps still smell of smoke and kerosene? Was it her hair that was so off-putting? Well, he was one to judge, dressed like some kind of coxcomb!

She heaved a sigh. What should she do now?

He'd said he wasn't from the area, so where had he come from that _he _wasn't staying at the inn? She found it hard to believe a man dressed like that was given over to sleeping in barns and strolling aimlessly from place to place like a vagrant. A man dressed like that belonged in some sort of troupe, maybe actors or showmen of some kind of thing. She went after him again, a bit more cautiously this time, still holding tight to her luggage. There was an encampment of sorts up ahead; she could see tents and camp fires and people milling about. Some of them were simply dressed like she was, others wore more of that frippery the man had worn.

So he _was _in a troupe...no, not a troupe, this was a fair. There were acrobats and jugglers and fire-eaters and sword swallowers and tumblers and musicians and animal trainers and other fantastic performers out there, and they were giving a show for the people who'd come from Rouen.

She squared her shoulders and marched on. Surely there must be someone down there who would give her a helping hand.

**Tell me what you think! :)**


	5. Société Odd

**Sorry this took so long and sorry if it's a bit short. Have mercy on me, I just started two new jobs!**

Everything was a whirlwind of color, sound and smell, drowning Ange as she moved among the crowd and feeling more and more lost with every step she took.

She was jostled and bumped in every direction and overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what was going on around her. Strange faces, strange noises, strange everything! It was like being thrust into a dream world where men breathed smoke and flame, women walked in the clouds, and children bent and twisted into the most fantastic contortions. She unconsciously tightened her hold on her things and persevered onward, not knowing quite what it was she was looking for but pressing forth just the same.

She leaped in surprise as a nearby fire-eater spat a mouthful of spirits at a torch clutched in his hand, sending a flare out over the heads of the crowd. She stepped back on the toes of the man behind her, and he barked at her, "Watch where you're going, will you?"

"Pardon, me, monsieur," she apologized, but he'd already moved away, and two children ran past her, bumping her aside and knocking her into a woman carrying a baby. "I'm sorry!" she said, holding onto her cello tighter to keep from dropping it. "I'm so sorry!"

"You look lost, love."

Another young woman approached, turning handsprings and cartwheels as she came. Her skirts flashed her bare legs, and Ange's eyes widened in amazement. The woman's bright, showy clothing singled her as a carnival girl, but Ange was still shocked at her brazen behavior. There was so much she'd missed in Paris, so much she'd never been exposed to!

The woman straightened up, her skirt still awry and showing off the petticoat beneath. She was taller than Ange, but her expression was friendly. "How about it?" she asked. "Are you lost?"

"I'm—I'm not sure," Ange replied. "That is, I followed someone here, but—but I can't—"

"Can't find him?"

Ange shook her head.

"Come on." The woman looped her arm around her waist and led her off. "Let's see if we can't spot him in this crowd."

"I don't think that will be too hard," Ange told her. "I think he might be part of the fair. He was dressed very unusually, and he wore a mask."

The woman turned a curious glance to her. "Tall fellow in a white mask? Thin? Bit moody?"

"Yes. Why?"

She grinned. "Why didn't you say so sooner? I know exactly where to find him." She changed her pace to a more purposeful stride, weaving through the masses and leading Ange along with ease. "I'm Adrienne," she said, glancing back over her shoulder. "How did you find Erik in the first place?"

"I didn't know his name was Erik," Ange replied, twisting to get past a cart selling candied apples. "I was just in the cathedral and saw him there—"

It was Adrienne's turn to be amazed. "He actually went out in public? I thought that hermit was a permanent exile!"

Ange could only shrug in bewilderment.

"Well, follow me," Adrienne told her. "We'll track him down." She led Ange through the fair to a tent at the edge of the activity, a plain, unassuming canvas dome with a flap drawn aside as an entrance. Ange hesitated to go inside, but Adrienne beckoned her so insistently she had no choice but to follow.

The light was dimmer in here and the air still and close, but not stifling. After her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Ange looked around and saw the trappings of a carnival fortune teller: a crystal ball sat on a table in the corner, surrounded by scattered cards and rune stones, crystals and feathers dangled from the ceiling, hung from string, and the aroma of incense filled the air and made Ange's eyes water.

Adrienne gestured her to a canvas chair and called, "Genevieve! Have you seen Erik?"

"Don't be funny, young lady," an old, hoarse voice responded. "I haven't seen anything in years." Ange peered into the shadowed corner the voice had originated from and saw a silver-haired old woman seated in another chair, her hand wrapped around the handle of a long cane and her eyes staring indifferently into space.

"Well, then, do you know where he is?" Adrienne persisted.

"Indeed I do."

"Then where is he?"

"He's right here."

"No, I'm not." Ange gave a start of surprise and gazed next to the woman and saw the young man from the cathedral, his long legs stretched out in front of his chair as he slouched moodily with his arms folded. She wondered how she could have missed him; the white of his mask stood out brilliantly in the shadows.

Adrienne rolled her eyes playfully and said, "Nice try, you pretender. I have someone here who was looking for you."

"No one ever looks for me, Adrienne. Apart from you, that is."

"She did. She says she saw you in the cathedral—"

He heaved a sigh. "Mademoiselle, I really do wish I could help you with whatever it is that's troubling you, but you really must stop hounding me like a fox trailing a rabbit."

"I'm sorry," Ange told him, "but—"

"Now, Erik," the old woman interrupted. "Don't tell me you were rude to this poor child!"

"Rude is relative," he replied, "and it depends on what you'd consider rude. Personally, I'd think that stalking someone after they've already taken their leave is pretty rude in itself."

"Oh, hush." She turned slightly in the direction Ange's voice had come and said, "What's your name, dear?"

"Yes, what is it?" Adrienne chimed in. "I forgot to ask you."

Ange nervously shifted her cello case next to her chair and twisted the handles of her bag in her hands. "Evangéline Melodie Marie," she said.

The old woman raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a nickname?"

"My—my mother called me Ange."

The old woman smiled. "Let that be a lesson to you, Erik. Treat guests with courtesy and generosity, because you never know when you're entertaining angels."

Erik said nothing.

"I'm Genevieve," the woman introduced herself. "What sent you hounding after my cranky friend in the first place?"

"You see, I'm...not from Rouen," Ange began. "And I'm not altogether sure I can afford to stay at the inn—"

"The Lamb and Lion? It's rather cheap, as I recall, and not very disreputable. Unless it's changed in the years since I've been there..."

"Yes," Ange said uncertainly. "But—" She paused.

Genevieve adjusted herself in her chair, sitting up straighter and more alert. "I smell a long story in the air."

Ange nodded, then hastily replied, "Yes, Madame."

"Go on, Ange. Tell me."

She took a deep breath and said, "I was recently widowed."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Ange recalled the cold, savage light in Séraphin's eyes when he hit her and said, "Don't be. There was a fire and our house burned, and I lost everything. Clothes, shelter, money, everything. I—had to sell my ring to pay for the train ticket here and I have some money left, but it's not enough to last very long. I don't have any family anywhere, and I just don't know what to do."

Genevieve nodded along and said, "Erik, you heartless thing, turning away a helpless woman like that."

"What would you have me do?" he asked. "I'm as new to this city as she is!"

"You could have brought her to me and let me sort it out." She lifted her hands and said, "Come here, Ange. Let me look at you."

Ange hesitated again, then got to her feet and crossed to the old woman's chair. She knelt in front of her and let her put her withered hands on her face, her fingers delicately exploring her features. She touched the cut on her forehead and said, "I hope that's not too painful."

"Not at all," Ange assured her. "I just fell down the stairs trying to get out of the house."

Genevieve nodded again and touched the newly-shorn hair. "Goodness, you are a novelty, aren't you?" she asked. "What color is this?"

"Brown."

"And your eyes?"

"Also brown."

"You have a lovely voice, Ange. I could listen to you speak for hours."

Ange smiled slightly.

"You might have noticed Erik here has an extraordinary voice himself. I may have to make the two of you sit down and talk to me some afternoon when I have nothing to do."

"I already have to talk to you when you have nothing to do," Erik reminded her.

"And now you'll have some company when you do."

He rolled his eyes, stood, and left the tent.

"Don't mind him," Adrienne told her, plopping down into the chair he'd left. "He's shy. He just pretends to be gruff and unfeeling."

Ange nodded in acknowledgment.

"So where did you spring from, Ange?"

"Paris."

Adrienne's smile grew. "I have some fond memories of Paris," she said. "I think I left a good deal of my lovers there."

Ange's eyes widened again, and Genevieve spoke up, "Hold your tongue, you brazen harlot, before you frighten the poor girl away." She patted Ange's hand. "They're odd company, my dear, but they're harmless. Would you care to join me for my evening pipe?"

Ange hung on indecision before the old woman added, "I'm only kidding, Ange. Feel free to help yourself to the tobacco or leave it for me." She drew a clay pipe out of her pocket and said, "Can I interest you, Adrienne?"

"Not tonight, Genevieve."

"Suit yourself." She took a pouch of cut leaf, tamped a pinch into the bowl of the pipe, then lit it with a match she'd dug from the depths of the pocket she'd taken the pipe from. She took a long pull, then exhaled with a sigh. "One in the morning and one at night," she said to no one in particular, "and I haven't been ill in thirty years. Let that be another lesson to you."

"What lesson?" Adrienne asked. "To lace opiates in ordinary pipeweed?"

"Please, child, I haven't touched opium in years."

Ange listened as Genevieve began a lecture on the virtues of smoking, thinking to herself that maybe life on her own wasn't going as she'd planned.


	6. Questions Embarrassantes

**Holy crud, this one is even shorter than the last one...don't mutiny on me, I just wanted to get _something _posted for you! Hopefully the next chapters will start coming a lot sooner. I can't make any promises, but I'll try to do my best. :)**

The sun was sinking in the sky when Erik and Ange walked back into Rouen. Genevieve had insisted she stay the whole afternoon and visit with her, and foiled all attempts at escape. When informed of evening's approach, she'd charged Erik with seeing her safely to the inn and he'd elected to comply rather than argue with her. Nevertheless, he was silent as they traveled aside from offering to carry her luggage and replying tersely whenever she ventured to speak.

After a long pause, she asked timidly, "What do you do at the fair?"

"I'm a magician," he answered, then went quiet.

She nodded slowly and asked, "Where did you learn to be a magician?"

"In another fair."

There was another long pause and they continued on without even looking at each other. The sound of the wind rustling the grass was soft and serene, and noise from the fair still echoed back to them. She felt that same calm bliss that had taken her at the Paris train station come upon her again, and though Erik was still as cool as ever, her reserve began to dissolve. "What about your family?" she asked. "Were they part of the fair?"

"No." The tone was short, clipped, and sharp, about the equivalent to a bee sting.

Ange's brow creased slightly, but she kept on. "Where were they? They can't have just let you run off and join a traveling fair without a word."

"They didn't have much to say about it," he told her.

"Why not?"

He sighed in annoyance and asked, "What about your family? Where are they?"

"My father died when I was still very young," she said, "and my mother has been gone for four years. I still miss her terribly."

"I'm sorry." The condolence was automatic. Genevieve had been trying to drill some manners into him for months, but it was hard to feel true empathy for a total stranger, let alone on a subject he knew so little of. He didn't speak for a few minutes, then thought, _What the hell?_ "Do you have any other family?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Ange replied.

"Not even in-laws? I think you said you were a widow..."

Emile's smug face sprang to her mind, but she shook her head. "No. No one."

Erik nodded, then there was silence again. They kept walking, feeling steadily more awkward with each step. Maybe one of them should try to keep the conversation going…but which one? Erik wasn't much of a talker, but it was preferable to her staring at him waiting for him to say something. Ange could hold her own in any social setting if given the chance, but this was unlike any social setting she'd ever so much as thought of before.

They were nearly in Rouen when he suddenly gestured to her cello and asked, "Do you play?"

She was caught off guard for a moment by the unexpected yet long awaited speech, then replied, "Yes. I love to play."

"And that was the only thing you could save from your house? You mentioned a fire earlier…"

Ange bit her lip, then nodded. "Yes. It was the only thing worth saving."

"Which is to say your husband wasn't?" Erik asked.

She turned wary eyes on him. "Why are you interrogating me?" she demanded.

"I'm not," he told her unaffectedly, "but if I was, don't forget that you were interrogating me first. Unless it's customary to prod in a stranger's personal life in Paris? I've never been, I can't say."

She sighed. "Do you know where this inn is?"

"No. I've already told you several times, I'm new to this city."

"Never mind, then. I heard it was somewhere near the cathedral."

The traffic in the streets had thinned significantly with the sun's setting, but there were still people milling about. They paid the strangers no mind as they went on their way, and the strangers themselves were no longer even paying each other any mind. Ange's eyes slipped from one building to the next, looking for the inn. She was tired and hungry, and she wanted to get away from this rude young man. She'd been eager for his help before, but he'd been completely unhelpful so far and he asked uncomfortable questions.

Finally, she spotted the sign hanging out above the street of a bushy-maned lion laying on the ground next to a snowy white lamb. Light spilled out from the windows and there was the hum of many voices whenever the door was opened. It was lively in the common room, from what she could tell, but she hoped it was more sedate as the night wore on.

She turned to Erik. "I suppose you can go back now," she told him.

"I suppose I can," he replied, "and then I can listen to Genevieve for the rest of the night demanding to know why I hadn't made sure you got a room safely."

"I'm sure I can get my own room."

"I'm sure you can, and I'm going to watch you do it."

"Why?"

"Because enough of my night has been sacrificed to chatter as it is, and I'd like some peace when I return to the fair."

_Chatter? _ she asked herself. _He's hardly said anything at all! _She shrugged and stood outside the door expectantly.

He stood watching her nonplussed for a few minutes, then asked, "Aren't you going in?"

She was silent for a moment, then responded, "A gentleman gets the door for a lady."

"Does he? I wasn't aware." He continued to stand there, either ignoring the hint or not recognizing it in the first place.

She tried again. "My hands are full," she said, indicating her luggage.

"So they are." And still he stood.

She had to keep from rolling her eyes. Ladies didn't roll their eyes, and Lisette had taught her to be a lady. It was clear that no one had taught Erik to be a gentleman. "Aren't you going to open the door?" she asked.

"As soon as you actually put the question to me," he replied.

_Ladies don't roll their eyes! _"Will you open the door, please?"

Without further ado, he turned the knob and held it open for her, following her inside once she'd crossed the threshold. The innkeeper, a man of average height and of aged but immaculate appearance, appeared and asked, "Can I help you?"

Erik didn't say anything, but Ange hardly expected him to. "I'd like a room, if you please," she said.

"Just the one?" the innkeeper asked, glancing inquiringly at Erik.

"Yes." She gestured to her companion. "He won't be staying here. He's part of the fair."

There was a glint of comprehension in the man's eyes as the young man's eccentric mien made sense to him. "For the one night, mademoiselle?"

"For now, monsieur."

He nodded. "Then if you'll just follow me upstairs…"

Ange spoke to Erik one last time. "Enjoy the rest of your night."

"Likewise." He watched her go after the innkeeper, then turned and set off into the night again, glad to be alone once more. He supposed she was…all right…but she asked awkward questions.


End file.
